Drastic Domestic
by thunder mark
Summary: They always told Kurt that patience was a virtue, but this? God. They had to be kidding. Future!fic-Kurt, Blaine, Jesse, Rachel.


_**a/n: **_This is one of those ideas that I got eating my morning cereal. All of my ideas come from that. Also, I'm a little obsessed with musical theater.

_**title: **_Drastic Domestic

_**summary: **_They always told Kurt that patience was a virtue, but this? God. They had to be kidding. Future!fic

_**word count: **_4622

_**rating: **_T—mild swearing, sexual situations, you know_, good stuff_.

_**characters: **_Kurt, Blaine, Jesse, Rachel, New Directions/Warblers/Vocal Adrenaline, some OCs

_**disclaimer: **_I don't own _Glee_ or any of the songs used in this fanfic.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Drastic Domestic.<strong>_

_._

_Pilot_

_._

_._

To say Jesse St. James—_the _Jesse St. James—expects nothing short of the best is a severe, universe-collapsing understatement. Jesse St. James _is_ the best, and, by nature, he must be treated as such. So it's when the National Musical Theatre company assigns Jesse to the role of "usher" (and not the kind that's on stage), his protests are both vehement and likely heard in Seattle.

"Excuse me? Madam Director?" Jesse zooms forward on pixie-theatre toes to a tastefully dressed woman of forty-three whose heels click-clack like a typewriter when she's pacing downstage.

Her shoulders slump when he catches up. She huffs, "Yes?" and wears a smile so brilliantly fake it puts tanning beds to shame.

"There must be some sort of mistake," he half-laughs, half-seethes. "See, on here I'm not a lead. You didn't even grant me a role. That can't be right—"

"It is," she answers point-blank, glaring at him over the frames of her chunky glasses. She pushes the frames back over the bridge of her nose with a free hand, nails painted blood red. "Budget cuts have marred us, and actors will now be involved in a plethora of activities. You didn't get the memo?"

"Memo?" Jesse wrinkles his nose delicately at the prospect of a memo. Isn't that something only average people do, check memos? "What are you—?"

"I'm not being serious," she deadpans. "You weren't good enough. And I'm afraid you're currently wasting my time."

Her attempts at escape are futile; he blocks her with the fervor of an equally dedicated and demented crossing guard. It takes every ounce of her patience not to squash his right foot with the heel of her Marc Jacobs pump.

He scrutinizes her seriously. "Are you suggesting I'm not talented?"

"Obviously."

Jesse grits his teeth. He is the master of his own temper. (He is the _master _of his own temper.) "I have more talent in _one_ skin cell than any—"

"_Lovely_ to hear. Now please leave—"

"More than they would ever dream of having! I—"

"Leave _now_—"

"—Could kick any of their asses at _anything_ I try—"

"—Before I call _security_—"

"I'll sing louder than them between aisles!" he finishes with a raise of his right, freshly plucked eyebrow. (As he often reminds himself, pain is beauty and—in the world of auditions—beauty can't hurt.) "And yes, that's a threat!"

This altercation continues for a little while longer before two beefy men in collared blue shirts and questionable badges turn up and drag Jesse out of the theater by the armpits into a sketchy alley and leave him there. He grumbles to himself. Turns out the Director keeps her word very nicely. Jesse decides she's just afraid of a stalemate.

(This is not the first time this has happened to Jesse St. James, and it most certainly will not be the last.)

.

**glee.**

.

_{KURT}_

_I think the best part of my—dare I say _our_ new apartment—in New York City is the view: all the people, the places, the happenings… It's to die for! I've finally made my lifelong dream a reality, and it feels great!_

_Unfortunately, nothing is perfect._

_The worst part of the deal is the company we make. And don't get me wrong; I love Blaine—will always love him to death. It's just the other lunatic I live with who drives me crazy, and he's exactly five steps straight down the hall, second door on the right. And his room's a pigsty—apparently his mother taught him minor and major scales but never bothered with the art of vacuuming._

_But I'm sure I can "make it work" in the words of my dear Tim Gunn. I'm Kurt Hummel after all—and what doesn't kill me only makes me stronger._

_(Although Jesse might just kill me.)_

.

Jesse storms into the bantam apartment with disheveled hair and a significantly bruised dignity. He slams the door behind him and ignores the annoyed shouts of the next door neighbors.

(Courtesy has never been/will never be present in Jesse's genetic code.)

Kurt attacks his nails with a file, and Blaine is headfirst in yesterday's edition of _The_ _New York Times_. Neither so much as glance at their "beloved" roommate as he enters, so Jesse clears his throat loudly and incessantly until they voice recognition of his arrival.

"Great," Kurt mutters. "The prodigy's back."

Blaine nudges Kurt's arm with his blue Converse sneaker and playfully scolds, "Aw, be nice to the poor guy." He switches focus to Jesse like a camera on auto. "Rough day at the office?"

"I quit," Jesse growls. "They were hardly good enough for a top of the line talent such as me. There's no way I could have reached my fullest potential. It's almost like community theater all over again."

Kurt snorts. "Got cut, didn't you?"

If looks could kill, Kurt might have roasted on a skillet.

Blaine nods empathetically. "Hang in there, buddy."

"Yeah, yeah."

Jesse stalks to his room, lets himself in, and proceeds to slam the door shut behind him with another crack that rouses uniform neighborly complaint.

When Jesse leaves earshot, Blaine gesticulates creatively to Kurt of Jesse's madness, and Kurt couldn't agree more. They return to their activities before being so rudely disturbed.

.

Jesse huffs and collapses onto his unmade bed, daydreaming of Broadway tours, staying in fancy, ornate hotel rooms complete with little chocolates on the pillows of hospital-cornered beds, fancy French wines, steak dinners, beautiful girls, triple threats; the lifelong goals are slipping right out of his perpetual death grip like water. He is so close; he can smell the lovely aroma of fame—but as he reaches for it, it vanishes. There's always a catch.

As Kurt will patiently explain to guests, there are three types of people in this world: people who absolutely cannot stand Jesse, people who can't stand Jesse but are too nice to voice their aversion, and Rachel Berry.

Jesse wrinkles his nose whenever he gives the slightest inkling of thought to the elusive Rachel Berry. He had informed her when she first graduated from college—in email form, no less—that she wasn't good enough. That she might as well give up and get a real job before the economy _totally _crashed and burned, because the spots on Broadway were limited. Limited to _real _stars, _real_ stars like one Jesse St. James. "No room for a nose as large as yours," were his exact words, Jesse recalls.

For once in his life, he senses his idiocy without any assistance from his roommates.

Jesse scoops up the playbill on his nightstand—the _Funny Girl_ revival. His gut twists when he reads the name in lights: _Rachel Berry. _

"Fucking_ bitch_," Jesse mutters to himself, chucking the playbill across the room. It lands atop his Mount Everest of dirty, discarded clothing.

.

Kurt rubs his temples furiously. "You need to remind me why we ever let that moron crash here. We don't even _like_ him!"

"I don't mind him," Blaine says fairly cheerfully, turning the page of his newspaper.

"Liar," Kurt accuses, sourly folding his arms over his chest. He tosses his nail file on the coffee table and sinks into the couch staring at the living room TV that's been out of order for a month. Blaine forgot to pay the bill; Kurt later decided they were probably better off without one anyway.

("Your chance of obesity goes up for every hour of TV you watch," Kurt had informed Blaine in utter horror. "Screw America's Next Top Model, I _can't_ get fat." For the coming months, Blaine would frequently stare at the blank TV screen and claim it was his favorite show. Kurt would groan; Jesse would throw his pizza box at him.)

Kurt runs a hand through his slicked back hair. "Look," he says. "Can we kick him out if he doesn't pay his rent by the end of the month? He hasn't gotten a job or anything. It's not like he's holding up his end of the deal, right? And this way, it would be totally justifiable to say, 'get the Hell out of here.' We wouldn't mess with your inelastic morals."

Blaine rests his head against the top of the couch, glancing at his boyfriend. "Blaine's morals say no. He stays."

Kurt grimaces. "Your morals are stupid."

"Don't be a baby," Blaine laughs, poking Kurt in the arm. Kurt fights against smiling himself. "Can you imagine Jesse trying to make ends meet all alone? He couldn't even make it through community college…"

"True," Kurt admits. "But still—"

"It'll be okay."

"Hm."

Blaine returns to his newspaper, expression neutral. Kurt leans to rest on Blaine's shoulder.

"We should go see _Funny Girl_, you know," Blaine suggests. "It got decent reviews. They liked Rachel—"

"—_who would've thought_—"

"I bet if you asked nicely—with sugar and a cherry on top, she'd get you cheaper tickets. She's a pretty good finagler if I remember correctly." Blaine folds back the paper to show the ad to Kurt. "The theater isn't too far from here. Ask Jesse if he'd like to go, too."

Kurt looks at Blaine incredulously.

"Just do it."

"Fine." Kurt raises his voice, "Jess, want to go see Rachel perform?"

There's a large crash in Jesse's room, like he's knocked over a lamp. He yells back, "No! She sucks!"

Kurt smiles a syrupy -sweet smile at Blaine. "_Clearly_, he's already seen it."

.

_I'm the greatest star,_

_I am by far,_

_But no one knows it!_

_That's why I was born-_

_I'll blow my horn_

_Till someone blows it!_

_I'll light up like a light_

_Right up like a light_

_I'll flicker, then flare up_

_All the world's gonna stare up_

_Lookin' down_

_You'll never see me-_

_Try the sky,_

_'Cause that'll be me._

_I can make 'em cry,_

_I can make 'em sigh,_

_Someday they'll clamor_

_For my dram-er._

_Have you guessed yet,_

_Who's the best yet?_

_If you ain't I'll tell you one more time._

She parades up and down the stage with a voice like an unceasing heavenly trumpet (emphasis on "unceasing"). The director's eyes sparkle with diamond-like brilliance. The other female cast members scowl from behind the curtain.

Rachel Berry glows. A fine, float-y dress billows behind her on the final note.

_You bet your last dime_

_In all of the world so far_

_I'm the greatest, greatest star!_

People can feel her dream exploding right along with her. They see it in the fire of her big, brown eyes. It's hard to tell where the stage ends and her feet begin, because they seem to be there so naturally, twirling in a trademark diva short-step dance routine that Shelby probably taught her.

The song emits ebullience much like the cheesy golden stars she used to tack right on next to the curve of the "y" in her last name. It's cute; it's Rachel; it still has yet to mature into a future career and feminine beauty, but it charms critics all the same.

_(Yay! She's terrific!)_

_._

She's in her dressing room, fixing the straps to her sundress, when a knock on the door infiltrates her perfect-pitch-detecting ears. She glances in the mirror once, flips her hair, smiles adorably, quickly, and attends to her admirer.

"Hello, hello—"

She cuts off when she sees it's no one out of the ordinary. Blaine grins, arms full of eye-wateringly bright flowers bundled together in silky paper.

"Blaine!"

She snatches the flowers from his arms and throws herself there instead. He chuckles from deep inside his gut and accepts her wholly overenthusiastic hug manfully, hardly stopping to wince.

"What brings you to this neck of the woods?" Rachel inquires immediately after they break apart.

"Your success, I guess," Blaine says, gazing around her significant personal room, appearing mildly impressed. "I saw your picture in the paper and—"

"Ugh, you didn't read that review, did you?"

"I did! It seemed really nice—"

"You can't listen to a single thing they say, Blaine. You can't!" she growls dramatically. "It's lies and slander! I mean, they claimed that I had nothing near the talent of Streisand, and—"

"I thought it was generous of them, personally," Blaine edges in quietly. "They gave your show four-and-a-half stars." He shrugs.

"Not good enough!" Rachel nods wildly. "I won't stop until I'm more than just a 'promising new talent!'"

"Whatever you want," Blaine concedes, sensing that he wouldn't likely want to delve deeper into her obvious depravity. Fame must have that effect of people. It would explain Jesse very well.

"So…" Rachel starts, stroking a red flower from the bunch. "How're you and Kurt doing?"

"We're still living together," Blaine says cheerfully. "Same place, although the butcher shop isn't right under us anymore. It's a tailor shop now. Instead of reeking of raw bacon, it smells like leather and cashmere—of course, Kurt digs that. And. Uh. It's nice, you know? Simple."

Rachel's lips turn up gently. "Still teaching music?"

"I am. I love my job. The pay isn't great but…I couldn't care less. Kurt keeps nagging me about that, but it's all good."

"'All's for the best in the best of all possible worlds,'" Rachel quotes.

Blaine furrows his brow. "Is that Voltaire?"

"Either that or Robespierre. I always get my French guys confused."

Before Blaine can open his mouth to say anything, Rachel continues, "Is he looking for a job?"

"Nah, I don't think so. He got promoted to manager at the beauty store down the street. I forget what it's called—something frilly and frankly, kind of embarrassing. Naturally, he wouldn't give it up in a million years. And he just picked up a new show, too. It won't go on for a few months, but he seems really into it."

Rachel's interest has been piqued. "Which?"

"_Candide_."

"Bernstein!" The mirror reflects the sheer size of Rachel's smirk. She pushes a piece of hair from her face.

"He's not a lead or anything, but he's enjoying himself so…"

"That sounds wonderful!" Rachel beams. "It's—well, it's been _too_ long."

.

Rachel insists on getting coffee with Blaine, and since she has "conveniently forgotten" her purse in the dressing room, he buys for both of them.

(Rachel is also one of those unfortunate people who could taste the difference between soy and non-soy, and she has her drink sent back within one short whiff.)

They make small talk over lattes before Rachel brings up a heavier topic.

"You ever miss performing?"

Blaine chokes on pumpkin spice. He doesn't expect something so casual to be so personal (and heart-wrenching). Funny how that works.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I?" he says quickly, with an air of defensiveness that an overanalyzing girl like Rachel Berry picks up on right away.

She narrows her eyes. "So why don't you?"

Blaine averts his eyes, gazes into the abyss of his hot coffee. "The class I'm teaching performs at Christmas and at their bridging ceremony—"

"A real performance, Blaine. With lights and costumes and emotions and standing ovations."

He answers honestly. "I don't know."

She lets the subject shatter on the floor like a broken vase. Casualness at its worst.

.

A lonely Kurt sings to himself as he locks up the beauty store three blocks away from his apartment. Frank Sinatra. It's usually not his thing, but it seems appropriate. His store was the busiest it had been in a long time, and his mood overall was utterly jovial.

_These little town blues are melting away!_

_I'm gonna make a brand new start of it_

_In old New York!_

_And if I can make it there, I'm gonna make it anywhere._

_It's up to you, New York, New York!_

Key in hand, he strolls up the street, running a freshly manicured hand through his shiny, brown hair. His thoughts are on his moisturizing treatment (and how Jesse better scurry out of the bathroom quickly when he gets home or he'll regret it!)

He arrives at the apartment in one piece, after stopping once to admire a handbag in the window (until he realized it was a knock-off of Louis Vuitton). To his dismay, it's empty—Blaine left a note warning Kurt that he was "catching up" with an old friend for a few hours (mildly concerning); Jesse left half a plateful of lemon pound cake on the kitchen counter that attracted several ants. Kurt wrinkles his nose, yanks on a pair of plastic gloves, and disposes of the offending thing.

Then he falls back on the worn-out couch in the tiny living room and decides to take a nap.

.

Jesse scouts out new auditions much like a vulture scouts out animal carcasses. He pours over the file cabinet of questionable resources (known over the Internet) like a well-oiled machine. He's at the New York Public Library, though, since he broke his laptop ages ago and never got around to having it fixed. Too many distractions.

He rubs away the roots of a migraine at his temples and scrolls further into the page—scrutinizing shows, dates, roles, settings… _What is his range again? White, reasonably tall, male, pretty thin? A legitimate triple threat no doubt. Yes, _extremely_ talented. Agent?_

…Agent?

"Shit," he mutters and switches off the computer at once. Several people around him in the near-silent section of the library glance at him, annoyed. He ignores them, much the way he ignores all other forms of authority.

Then comes the ever-present nagging voice in the back of his head.

_You have no talent. I don't know why you bother. You know, your grandmother always said you'd make a halfway decent lawyer. Why didn't you go after that? You could be in fucking Yale by now!_

"Shit, shit, shit!" Jesse says more audibly. He loves the way it punctuates the space around him with staccato slang. The people around him morph from vexation to outrage. Jesse, in turn, morphs into madman. He speed walks from his place next to the computer to the world outside the library.

The streets of New York are dirty and full of people. The air is crisp in response to the setting sun.

"I'm an unemployed _genius_!" Jesse shouts to no one in particular.

"Tell me about it" and "No one gives a fuck, kid," are replies that Jesse wisely passes up. In their place, Jesse's eye catches a middle-aged man and his guitar sitting side-by-side against the ornate stone of an old building.

"C'mere kid," the man grunts. He reaches for the guitar (which appears to be equal in age to its owner and in desperate need of new strings).

Jesse scuttles over. Before sitting, he asks, "You're not going to rape me, are you?" point-blank.

The man wheezes out a laugh, removes his patchwork hat and sets it face-up on the pavement. "No, no, sir. Ha. You do music at all, kiddo?"

"Do I?" Jesse sneers. "I _am _music."

"We'll see." And the man strikes up a tune. Jesse sort-of recognizes it right away and clears his throat to sing along.

_Let's dance in style, let's dance for a while_

_Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies_

_Hoping for the best but expecting the worst_

_Are you going to drop the bomb or not?_

_Let us die young or let us live forever_

_We don't have the power but we never say never_

_Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip_

_The music's for the sad men_

_Can you imagine when this race is won_

_Turn our golden faces into the sun_

_Praising our leaders we're getting in tune_

_The music's played by the mad men_

_Forever young, I want to be forever young_

_Do you really want to live forever, forever and ever_

_Forever young, I want to be forever young_

_Do you really want to live forever? Forever young_

Peculiar events start to string together. Jesse keeps singing, but he can't help but feel out of place. A crowd starts to gather, and Jesse puts his diaphragm to good use. They drop loose change in the old man's hat with a dull, thunking sound. The sounds of the rushing city are forgotten, simply background noise to Jesse's performance. He strikes subtle dance moves to appease on-lookers.

The old man grins, reveals his rotting set of teeth with a few new gold ones interspersed.

_Some are like water, some are like the heat_

_Some are a melody and some are the beat_

_Sooner or later they all will be gone_

_Why don't they stay young_

_It's so hard to get old without a cause_

_I don't want to perish like a fading horse_

_Youth's like diamonds in the sun_

_And diamonds are forever_

_So many adventures couldn't happen today_

_So many songs we forgot to play_

_So many dreams swinging out of the blue_

_We let them come true_

_Forever young, I want to be forever young_

_Do you really want to live forever, forever and ever_

_Forever young, I want to be forever young_

_Do you really want to live forever, forever and ever_

_Forever young, I want to be forever young_

_Do you really want to live forever?_

Jesse draws out the last note of the song, and people in their work clothes from all over applaud. He feels like a real person for once in his life. But he still sits upon a chipped pedestal.

When he looks back at the old guitar man, Jesse realizes he's blind.

.

"We sold, like, fifty-thousand copies of Vogue. And that's on top of however many new Revlon lipsticks went, too," Kurt spills, between sips of wine. "God, it was such a great day. I can't wait to tell the owner. He's going to be so happy for once in his miserable life! …Oh, did I just say that? _Whoops_!"

Blaine laughs into the remnants of his low-carb chicken dinner from the convenience store.

"What were you up to today, mister?" Kurt purrs to his boyfriend.

Blaine throws down his fork into an abyss of fowl bones and groans playfully. "Ugh. You know I hate talking about myself."

"You're so _cute_."

Blaine can tell Kurt's just slightly drunk, but he's pretty much okay with it. Kurt leans over the arm of the couch to kiss Blaine on the nose—and Blaine can definitely tell Kurt has tapped legitimately from the bottle on the coffee table. Case and point, the bottle isn't sitting on a coaster, and that's virtually unheard of in their apartment.

"Seriously, though," Kurt drawls, taking another sip from the glass. "Whadja do?"

Blaine purses his lips a moment. "I saw Rachel today."

"Rachel Berry?" Kurt diva-gasps.

"The one and only."

"Where?"

"Theater. You know, for her show. She got us tickets. We went out for coffee and had a nice chat."

"You're still gay though?"

Kurt appears anxious. Blaine laughs audibly. "_That_'s what you most concerned about?" He laughs again. "Gayer than a rainbow."

"Good." Kurt's calmer; Blaine sighs, reminded once again that he's the only mature one in the household.

.

It's past midnight, and Jesse sprints into the apartment, with a trademark door slam behind him.

"Blaine!" he shouts. "Blaine, Blaine!"

Blaine emerges, rubbing his eyes. "Keep it down. Kurt's asleep."

Jesse raises his voice. "You'll never guess what just happened to me!"

"_What_?"

Jesse pouts. "I don't like that tone."

An agitated Blaine takes a deep, shaky breath. In a voice as fragile as blown glass, Blaine says, "What happened to you, Jesse?" He even forces a sweet smile for good measure.

It's enough to satisfy Jesse. "I found a guy. … Shit. I forgot his name again. He's kind of old. I sang with him, and it was actually kind of fun. We earned, like, fifty bucks in two hours just jamming out. But he's homeless, so I brought him with me."

Blaine has to pinch himself. "I'm sorry—_what_?"

"You'll see," Jesse claims happily. He rushes over to the door and holds it open for a frail man and his guitar. "Here he is." He addresses the man, "This is Blaine."

"Hi," the man coughs.

Blaine blinks. "_No_. Fucking. Way." And the normally well-tempered Blaine doesn't often swear, either.

"He can share my room. I've got twin beds."

And without saying anything, Blaine escorts himself back to bed.

Jesse pats the man on the shoulder. "So yeah. That's Blaine. You're really going to like it here. He cooks the best banana walnut pancakes ever."

.

They sit in awkward silence in a booth at the local Greek diner, waiting on generously portioned gyros. Kurt and Blaine rest on the left, Jesse and his guitarist across from the couple. Kurt scowls, Blaine looks exhausted, Jesse seems anxious; the guitarist is indifferent and unseeing, and his stomach growls. His sense of smell is greater than all the other three combined. He can sense the stuffed grape leaves at the adjacent booth—and the giant desserts in the case at the front of the place. He's just happy to be there.

Kurt's elbow drops unto the table, his cheek with it, balanced. Jesse leans back in the booth seat, a little jittery. Blaine doesn't move; he's the epitome of sleep deprived.

Jesse can't help himself. "_Okay_. I have to tell you guys the best idea ever."

Kurt doesn't skip a beat. "Does it involve inviting the rest of the homeless population of New York into our place? Because in that case, _no me gusta_," he says acerbically, pausing only to say, "No offense," to the guitarist.

"None taken," grumbles the man in reply.

"No, no," Jesse says, "nothing like that. No. Hear me out now. Have you ever listened to this guy play?" He nudges the man at his side gently with an elbow. "He's _brilliant_. And I'm clearly a great singer. And you two are…_reasonably_ gifted."

Kurt rolls his eyes, but Blaine pats his boyfriend's hand before Kurt can return with an acid reply.

"You see where I'm going with this?" Jesse says enthusiastically. "We could be awesome! Kurt, remember how I advised the New Directions for Mr. Schuster way back when?"

"Before or after you failed community college?" Kurt shoots back.

"…Whatever. You get my point. I know how to organize this kind of thing. I don't know whether we'll be a band or what. Blaine plays piano, don't you?"

Blaine lifts his head in acknowledgement.

"So do I. And Kurt…you can do _stuff_, too. I think you can. You sing. Right, right. We all sing. Anyway, what if we did something with this? It'd be a huge hit. We'd be epic. And we're not _ugly,_ so we could put our actual pictures on the album covers—"

"Jesse."

"—_And_ we could take on _legit_ songs. Show tunes, rock, jazz—"

"Jesse!"

"And basically _everything._ We'd be so versatile, and—"

"Jesse! _Enough_. We get it," Blaine cuts him off, irked.

Jesse purses his lips as the plump waitress brings out their orders. He takes a bite of his sandwich, eyes still poised on Blaine. A grumpy Kurt picks at his food with a fork. The guitarist revels in the scent of the dish. Blaine contemplates without giving thought to the waitress or anyone around him.

Finally, he gives in. "I'll give it some thought."

"Perfect! I'll start planning!" Jesse exclaims with his mouthful.

Kurt stomps on Blaine's foot under the table, and Blaine can't do anything but look as apologetic as he possibly can for the next hour.

.

To be continued.

Reviews are much appreciated.

.


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